


BBCSH 'Wall'  7/6  [NC-17]

by tigersilver



Series: 'Wall' [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-20
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-02 06:47:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This would be the 'naughty' that NC-17 refers to. All the other is but smoke-and-mirrors and cloud castles only.</p>
            </blockquote>





	BBCSH 'Wall'  7/6  [NC-17]

Hmm...well. See, it's like this: I can't count?

 

  
  


(Preface: I lied)

**VII** (This is of course   _plus two_ , because for dramatic effect I couldn’t manage to stuff the naughty bits into just the five or six bits, sorry, and I did decide on a whim to hand this collection of strung-together drabbles the NC-17 rating. Rather wrote myself into a corner on that end. Oh, yes.  I AM a dilettante, did I mention?) 

John’s _warm_ —first thing Sherlock _feels_. John’s wet: second.  Narrow red tongue in motion and sloppy here and there, skittering across Sherlock’s rising throat, shoulder, lips;  residual dampness on skin rubbing; hair dripping, so cold on the steamy hot skin Sherlock’s wearing—so cold it _burns_. And John’s quite fit, which is brilliant. Just heavy enough to be solidly convincing, actually. Their bodies collide moist and delicious on the horizontal as John essentially flings himself onto his occupied bed and all across the occupier like a shock blanket. He can’t quite cover all of his willing conquest, of course, but one can tell he’s rather desperately and intently trying, what with hands, mouth, scrabbling knees on the coverlet for purchase, flapping elbows and curling, flexing feet. 

Sherlock reciprocates but his primary object is to hold the fuck onto John and to thrust. Like a piston pump he does so: up, down, up, down, undulating until he loses all patience and simply clamps John’s shifting pelvis within his own straining thighs, immobilizing him. There’s stray cloth in the way (pants, robe belt) but John instantly gets with the plan, settling into place and shoving in return, localizing the exquisite torment. The pressure trapped between their miraculously matched-up groins is enormous and Sherlock is struck by the insistent idea that if he doesn’t ejaculate   _right now_ it is entirely possible his head will explode. 

The swivel-thrust-shove action is spectacularly compelling, though. He hardly wants to give it up.

He does come, at last—what? It’s been all of a minute, maybe two?—jaw dropping open under John’s frantic licks and nips, and then enters straight into a full-body rictus of relief, eyes wide open, lips parted, not breathing in the least. Heart stuttering and ears full of blessed white noise. He’s light as thistle silk upon an ocean of sensate pleasure; he’s all he’s ever understood of godhead, incandescent. John follows him a split-second later, his brilliantly scarlet-purple cock throbbing and spending itself in jerks and jets all over Sherlock’s half-naked belly. 

Sherlock’s robe and tugged-down pants (John's pants, really, borrowed and dusty-musty) constrict him, pinging faint upon his returning conciousness; he could scarcely care less for _that_. There’s enough contact between him and John finally, finally, and the walls they’ve built up individually are now all of a piece, decidedly, cemented permanently with bodily fluids. It’s only blood they’ve not mingled yet but that will come soon enough, he’s sure. He’s got a whole network, a webbing, of future love bites mapped out in his mind’s eye, all intended to brand John as indelibly, utterly Sherlock’s. Still, it’s all…beyond good, for a beginning. So far from ‘not good’ it’s in another universe completely. 

“Sherlock…” John murmurs, mouthing at his new lover’s nipple. His eyes are closed in peaceful bliss. “Sherlock.” 

“John.” 

“Mmmm.” 

With the first bout of insanity out of the way, Sherlock sighs, deflating almost to utter flatness, and John groans softly against Sherlock’s rapidly rising chest, clutching at him and wriggling about in the slop of their mutual passion to find a more comfortable position. The detective is certain he’ll be bruising black-blue-green-yellow where John’s fingertips have him pinned and he’s quite gleeful. He wants the marks. The reminders. 

“Oh, god.” 

He wants them. 

After a moment his dick perks up and sends a pang straight to his old brain. He’s recalling the unfortunate state of his poor, sad-sack bollocks these last months, how they seemed to be always taut and swollen. How unpleasant it is to walk about forever anxious someone will notice his tumid state.  A Holmes randy, like a gauche schoolboy: unthinkable! But true. Still, even now, there’s so much still pent up within him; he’s likely to expire if he gets no relief. 

A glance down at John’s hooded eyelids and his swollen mouth reassures him. 

“Please,” he says, and rolls over, reaching for John with every digit, every part. “Please, John.” 

“…How?” John folds himself into the length of sticky, sweaty Sherlock as though he was specifically constructed to fit. “Ah…Sherlock?” 

“Any way you want,” Sherlock replies, though he’s already sucking on his own two fingers, preparing, and thus mumbles the rest: “Anghyyy h'way at’all, Johnghn.” 

John grasps his wrist and takes it firmly, drawing it down his waist and angled hip till Sherlock’s slobbered-over hand curls wetly about an exposed buttock. 

“Like this, then,” he directs, a hint of a growl in his voice, and Sherlock can’t help but grip that sweet swell of flesh possessively and shiver. “I’ve never—well, I’ve once, a long time ago—“

“Don’t tell me!” Sherlock orders sharply. “Don’t, John.” 

 He’s absolutely not wanting to contemplate the possibility that John—his John—has ever been with anyone else. It’s a direct contradiction of evidence, of course, but Sherlock doesn’t give a flying fuck. None of the past matters; it’s all smoke-and-mirrors, confusing him. What’s imperative is this moment now and during this moment John Watson is his and only ever his. He won’t tolerate any other present or future.  And the past can very well go hang itself, for all the good it’s done him. This now is brilliant; ever so much the better than ever before. 

“Right,” John nods, agreeably, “okay, so…? Will you, erm, do the honours, then?” 

With infinite care he coaxes Sherlock’s still-damp fingers off his family jewels and nudges them in the direction of his arsehole. Sherlock goes with the flow joyfully and can’t help but stifle John with a furiously happy kiss as he gropes, one that seems to last a full century. He starts a slow thrust and shove as he snogs, poking a cautious saliva'd fingertip into John’s sphincter. The resultant moan lends him a massive amount of confidence. 

As if he didn’t know already; as if it weren’t clear as day John is willing. Ready and able, too.   _Brilliant!_ Sherlock’s brain sings. _Sodding brilliant_. 

_This is glory_ , Sherlock thinks a fractured moment, and then ceases with the discrete thinking, really. He’s rigid again, like the blunt nose of John’s gun, and John’s just as excited, uttering encouragement into the hollow between his collarbone and his ear. 

“Come on, that’s it,” he mutters, pushing his arse against Sherlock’s dancing fingers, enticing. “Come on, come on—more!” 

“Protection,” Sherlock interjects, all at once recalling he’s a gentleman and not just a mass of needy flesh pushing forward to culmination. “John,” he adds, insistently, when John only rocks and yawls against him, not responding. “John, I can’t simply—we mustn’t.“

“Right, yeah, okay,” John answers on a ragged breath, shuddering as he lunges back and away. “Fine. Wait—“

 There’s a moment of confused motion whilst he reaches behind and beneath for the packets of supplies Sherlock brought along with him at the start of this endeavour. 

“Here! Here…this…oh! and this,” John mumbles happily, shoving painfully sharp-edged little boxes at Sherlock’s pressing breastbone. “Sherlock!” he whines unhappily when it’s all not immediately happening and then begins the unwrapping and uncapping  process even as he twines a blond-furred leg ‘round Sherlock’s tipped hipbone as it pulses against his flank. “Sherlock, _now_. Do it!”

“Have to—must—yesss!” Sherlock’s in full agreement. 'Now' is best.

They’ve not stopped moving against each other since they got their breath back, not since they came to a mutual tacit agreement that penetration was the next logical step to take. Since they’ve bonded, really, and Sherlock’s half out of his mind or more with plain old desire. John’s wild gaze betrays the same. The vision of John in that amazing state gives Sherlock just enough patience to stop what he’s been doing and pay attention to the products. 

He needs them, the way John requires tea of a morning. He doesn’t want them necessarily but it’s all he can do to protect John right now. And John deserves every smidgeon of care Sherlock can summon. 

Together, they manage to open and apply all the necessities: sheath, lube, more lube—half a tube of it. Sherlock’s shorts come all the way off, as does his stained satin wrapper. The duvet’s kicked off the bed summarily, along with the rest of the items Sherlock stocked up on at the corner chemist’s. It’s all systems go at last. 

“Oh…fuck,” Sherlock mouths silently, his cock poised at the brink and John gripping his shoulders so fiercely his nails scrape and gouge half-moons. “Oh, John!” 

“Oh-my-gawd!” John pants and he’s on his back, legs spread wider that any man with a nonexistent leg injury should be able to manage. “Oh, Sherlock, yes—please!” 

Sherlock cups John’s buttocks, spreading them wide till his dimpled crack almost flattens, and proceeds to jab wildly, his eyes rolling back in his head. He can’t process anything other than _need-need-need_ and that’s his blood screaming high like tension wires in the wind. John’s little noises are pure unadulterated heaven. Sex on a stick—the bomb. 

“God—fucking—damn!” he grits. “In you; I’m ** _in_** you, John! Bloody FUCK!” 

As if this was earth-shattering progress and a giant leap forward for humanity. ‘Course, for Sherlock, it is. John naturally chooses that moment to spoil it, giddily facetious. 

“P-P-Potty mouth!”He flashes a dazzling white half-grin and giggles breathlessly. “Sherlock’s a potty mou—“

“Shut it, John!”  He’s charmed, though. Quite.

“Ma-make me, then. _Sherlock_.” 

John’s  ticklish or perhaps simply oxygen-deprived. It’s inane that he’s laughing even when gasping; so silly, Sherlock loves it, nonsense that it is. But by fuck, he’s no time for pointless chatter. Not _now_. 

“Hah! Ahah! Bloody! Just—just— _in_ , let me in.“

He is in. That doesn’t seem to matter. He craves farther in. 

“…righ—”  John’s frantic agreement is eaten up by a gurgle. “—kay!” 

 It’s quite possibly the best sound in the world. 

“—ck!” Sherlock can’t inhale, can’t exhale. Can’t do anything but dive and withdraw, drive and reverse. Quick-step, double-time, all that jazz—oh!

“Agh!”

There’s nothing better than a hot willing man and a cock to go in him, primed and fully loaded. The jabs become measured shoves, and then transmute into a slightly jerky but still awesome form of horizontal tango. 

“Nnn…mmah!” John burbles. He’s a wonder wall. Sherlock can’t get enough. 

“Good?” He chomps out, catching himself on the cusp and willing his dick to be reasonable and not simply go off like a firework in John’s arse. This is, after all, _his_ area and he’s determined to be fucking brilliant at it. “Al—alright, J-John?” 

“Yes,” John moans faintly, rolling his head across the pillows. “—sss!” Neither of them can keep hold of their breath but then breathing is _boring_. “Ah—ah—ah!—that’s it.” He flaps an aimless hand and then returns it instantly to Sherlock’s sweat-slick ribcage. Squeezes in wordless appreciation; clenches his insides as well, to excellent effect. “Thass’it…ah, thasss…it..”

 That _is_ it, incidentally. Sherlock would’ve liked to have had more control--make it last longer—but it’s been a long time. It’s been ‘never’, when one realizes this is fornication with the man he adores. 

This time he’s present and alert for every single solitary nanosecond and there’s never been anything like. The hiss in his ears is enervating and exhilarating at the same time. John’s face in mid-orgasm is all he’s ever never known till recently he’s wanted.  Needed. 

They both blank out for a bit, which is totally understandable: dehydration. 

As for talking it out, they don’t. Full stop. John, the one who always wants answers, explanations and so forth and Sherlock, the one who is very secretly pleased to explain himself whenever John wants, they are both…silent. As tombs. They simply shag—daily, often, nightly, regularly, as much as they both can stand. 

It’s only when they are returned to 221B Baker Street, some weeks later, Moriarity’s lot essentially stifled and swept up, that Sherlock comes across a book of poetry mixed in with John’s copies of Kipling and Grisham, medical journals and completed acrostics. It’s a slim volume, well-worn, and there’s a paper scrap marked with a scrawling ‘S’ and a note that that might read ‘Show him’: 

‘  ** He drew a circle that shut me out —  
  Heretic, rebel, a thing to flout.  
  But Love and I had the wit to win:  
  We drew a circle that took him in.’ **

** … ** "Outwitted", Edwin Markham

Finite. 

_ PS, I am also a sop; can you tell? Sorry for the non-beta and weird-arse accent. I’m a mongrel and I speak in Tiger-tongues only. Hee! _

  



End file.
